We're Not Ready
by browneyedgirl29
Summary: You weren't nearly ready. Neither were we. Each of the crew members deals with the loss of one of their own. My tribute to Anton Yelchin.
1. To Lose This One

_Bones_

Dr. Leonard McCoy was no stranger to being unable to save everyone. He'd almost gotten used to that one by now. He'd certainly lost people in his line of work. He'd lost young people before. Hell, he'd even lost kids before.

Bones also wasn't a stranger to the dangers of space, and what that meant for him and his friends. This crew, though he was begrudging to admit it, had become like his family. _All_ of them. But he'd always known that one day, space would demand that one of them give their lives. Whether it be on this mission, or twenty years from now when they'd all gone their separate ways. And he'd known that, as the doctor, he'd be the one to make the official death pronouncement. He'd be the one to pull the sheet up over their face and fill out their death certificate. So he'd tried to prepare himself for it as best as possible.

But this was one thing he hadn't been prepared for. He'd even begun to believe that Jim's encounter with Khan had fulfilled the inevitable brush with premature death for this senior staff.

He wasn't prepared to lose this one.

This time, space had asked far too much.

Bones hesitated in covering up Lieutenant Pavel Chekov's face for the final time. He'd had no issue obscuring the kid's body from view. But his face was the one part that still looked just as it had in life, not battered, not broken. Just normal. Just Chekov.

Before he could think too hard on that topic, the sound of someone clearing their throat behind him made him turn. Grateful for the distraction, Bones turned to find his youngest nurse standing there, holding out the official paperwork that it was his duty to fill out any time a crew member lost their life in the line of duty.

Against his will, Bones couldn't help but thinking that this girl was about Chekov's age. He'd seen the Russian flirting with her on occasion. Shaking his head, Bones thought about what a ladies' man Chekov had become in the short time he'd known him. From his observation, the girl hadn't necessarily encouraged the attention, even if she hadn't really minded it, either.

Judging from the expression on her face as she stared at the still, rigid form on the biobed, she was wondering if maybe she should have.

"Thank you, Nurse Wilson," he told her, in hopes of maybe breaking her out of the state of shock the entire crew had been reeling from. "See to your other patients."

Her blue eyes turned to penetrate him, and he was glad he wasn't prone to squirming. She bought none of the crap he'd just thrown at her. The gruff quality his voice was sporting had her less than fooled. She knew just how broken up about this he was.

But currently, her own emotions were overpowering her insight, and she blinked a couple of times, looking back at Chekov's body.

"It's not fair," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Bones sighed, shaking his head, and put a hand on her shoulder. "No. It's not."

She steeled herself, looked him in the eyes once more, then nodded, returning to her duties.

Bones stared at the screen in front of him, but couldn't bring himself to begin filling it out. Not quite yet. He set it on the edge of the biobed and stood there, his arms folded, unable to take his eyes off of his friend's unmoving face.

It had been that morning. Just that morning, the last time he'd seen Chekov alive. He'd seen the away team off, Jim as usual pushing aside his warnings of impending doom. Damn it, he wished the man would have listened to him. But he knew, after the fiasco down on the planet, after the transporter malfunction, after…Chekov, that no one wished that more than James T. Kirk himself.

Jim hadn't been by yet, which was strange. Normally he came to pay his respects to his deceased crew members in private – or as privately as possible, since Bones was legally required to be there. No way was he on the bridge right now. Bones turned to his computer.

"Locate the captain," he told it. Jim was in his quarters. Bones imagined he was probably nursing the remains of that Romulan ale they'd stolen from Chekov a few months ago. That is, if he wasn't too numb to do anything at all.

Jim could wait. Bones turned back to Chekov, knowing that it was time to cover his face, even if it was only until Jim got here. It was only respectful.

But as he went to do so, Bones once again against his will entertained the thought that Chekov looked as though he were just sleeping. Bones almost wished he could pretend he were. Then all he'd need to do was give the back of Chekov's head a whack and question how the hell he'd managed to get promoted when he fell asleep on the job.

But there was no tell-tale rise and fall of the chest, no soft hiss of breath from the nostrils. Chekov wasn't sleeping this time. He was gone.

Something inside of Bones broke as he remembered the first words he ever said to Chekov, and as he fell into a chair by the biobed, his eyes filling with tears, he growled them out again.

"Dammit, kid, _how old are you_?"

There was no answer, of course. No "sewenteen, sir," or, more accurately for the current date, "twenty-two." Bones could remember being twenty-two. That was before life had beaten him down. He'd seen enough of life to know that there was a lot of it to live after twenty-two. He gritted his teeth. In his opinion, no one should have to die before they saw fifty, but certainly not before thirty.

Bones leaned up against the biobed, letting his emotions flow, for once manifesting themselves in grief rather than anger. The last time this had happened was when Jim had sacrificed himself in the warp core, but there had been a difference then. Then there was a cryo tube. There was super blood. There was a way around death that time.

Bones' head knocked Chekov's arm out from under the sheet, and, forcing himself to look anywhere but at the now-disfigured hand, Bones focused on the lieutenant's stripes on the sleeve.

One of many things Chekov was too young for – promotion. Yet the kid had managed it somehow. He'd earned lieutenant a few weeks before the encounter with Krall. Bones remembered the pride practically pouring off of all the senior crew members when they'd celebrated in the rec room. Uhura had gotten visibly choked up, and even Spock had seemed less than his stoic Vulcan self. Sulu had been off to the side, grinning like he'd just won the lottery, and Scotty had claimed that in honor of the occasion, he'd be weaning Chekov off of his "milk diet" and introducing him to "a man's drink" in the form of Scotch. The young Russian had been disdainful at first of anything other than his beloved "wodka," but judging by how quickly he started claiming Scotch was "inwented in Russia," he'd taken to it just fine.

Bones wished for the life of him he could get that accent out of his head, as it just served to remind him that he wouldn't be hearing it ever again. But he knew that the day would come when he would long to remember it, exactly as he was now.

His mind went back to that day in the rec room, and he knew that as much as everyone else was proud of the kid Jim had affectionately dubbed "their Russian," no one was more proud than Jim himself. He may not have been the most verbal about it, but Bones knew Jim looked at Chekov like a younger brother, a bond only solidified by their time locked in a battle for survival together with Krall.

Bones knew he should probably check on Jim. Make sure the man wasn't lying in a drunken coma on the floor somewhere. But he had his job here to do first. Steeling himself, he grabbed Chekov's arm to shove back under the sheet. He paused, staring at the lieutenant's stripes again.

"You had your whole life ahead of you," he growled, his grief once again manifesting itself in anger. "It wasn't supposed to stop here. Hell, kid, you were going to make a damned fine captain one day. Maybe even an admiral. You were supposed to get old and bald and completely lose anything that might have made you the irritating little Casanova you were turning out to be. So why the hell did you have to insist on staying on the planet with Jim? You noble little bastard. Didn't you know how much we'd miss you?"

 _I knew ze risks, Doctor_ , he seemed to hear Chekov saying, as he knew he would have were he here. _I vouldn't have wolunteered to stay behind if I vasn't ready._

" _We_ weren't ready," Bones found himself muttering to the air. "Dammit, Pavel, did you stop to think that maybe _we're_ not ready?"

Yes, Bones had prepared himself, he realized. He'd prepared himself for the loss of any of the rest of his friends. But never in his wildest nightmares would he have imagined they'd lose Chekov.

The med bay doors slid open and Jim stood there in the doorway. Bones stared at him. Normally, Bones was the tough one. The sage one. The one who was there for Jim. But as the two friends tried to keep up the façade of being immovable objects, it became apparent: Neither of them were about to be the strong one. Not this time.

Bones once again flashed back to that day five years ago.

 _Wait a minute, kid. How old are you?_

 _Sewenteen, sir._

 _Oh. Oh, good._

"He was twenty-two, Jim."

Jim nodded curtly, apparently not trusting himself to speak. Bones didn't give a damn whether he sounded like a blubbering baby, however.

"I wasn't ready, Jim," he said, looking back at Chekov's face. "I wasn't ready to lose this one."

Jim moved to stand by him, putting one hand on Bones' shoulder and reaching down with the other to where Chekov's hand still hung off the bed.

"I wasn't either, Bones," he said. "I wasn't, either."


	2. To Accept Injustice

_Spock and Uhura_

Spock was normally fairly hard to read, but Uhura was really having issue telling what he was thinking this time. They'd been together for almost five and a half years now – but for that two month period not so long ago – and she'd learned to see through the Vulcan exterior fairly well to the human part of him, better than most others, she knew.

Normally, at the loss of someone close to him, such as his mother or Ambassador Spock, the Vulcan only very thinly veiled the roiling human emotions inside until someone pushed him over the edge. When Kirk had died, he hadn't needed any pushing. If she hadn't been just as brokenhearted, his rage and grief might have scared her.

But now there appeared to be nothing. Nothing lying under the surface. Nothing about to break through. And Uhura wanted to know why. Of all the deaths that should be eating at him, making him squirm, confusing the hell out of him, one as unexpected, tragic, and seemingly pointless as Chekov's should do it.

Uhura knew that pressing him about it would do no good, but even if he was feeling nothing at this point, damn it, she at least wanted to talk to someone about what had happened! And so far, of all the men, the only ones of her friends who had known Chekov on the same level, McCoy and Scotty were the only ones who'd shown much more emotion than Spock. But they were both worse off than her, and while she didn't mind offering comfort, she also needed some of her own. Kirk and Sulu had both soldiered on, Sulu numbly, Kirk almost angrily. What she saw going on in the captain's mind scared her a bit. She knew the turmoil he was going through would rear its ugly head eventually. She just hoped it was before the memorial. Sulu, she was sure, had his moments behind closed doors, but it was clear the death of his young friend was not something he wished to discuss at length yet.

One would think Spock would be the one she would be most comfortable talking to, but it was almost as if there was a wall there. One neither of them cared to break down at the moment.

So it was the night the last straw finally fell. They were in Spock's quarters after a shared meal, five days after Chekov's death. The meal had been taken in silence, and it was beginning to drive Uhura batty. She wasn't the most chatty of people, and neither was Spock, but this was ridiculous.

From her spot by the sink, she turned to him, silently pleading, _It's been five days. Say something, damn it! Scream, cry,_ something _to show that you recognize how unfair this all is!_

But he merely sat there, staring at something in his lap, his fingers steepled before his mouth in a thoughtful position, thoughts clearly running behind his eyes. Uhura turned to the wall, misdirected anger coursing through her. Her arms braced against the counter, her back ramrod straight, she attempted to take a few deep, shuddering breaths.

"Nyota?" Spock asked, finally noticing her moderately peeved state. "Is something wrong?"

 _Oh, so now you speak!_ Uhura decided the best option right now was to just be honest – well, half-honest, anyway. "I'm just…thinking about Chekov."

Though she was still facing away from him, she had been with him long enough to know exactly what his facial expression was just then. Pensive, the closest thing to emotion she'd ever seen on his face besides sass. He was probably nodding slightly.

"I confess that I, too, have been contemplating Lieutenant Chekov's death," he said, and she thought she caught the barest trace of a catch in his voice. After a moment, however, he completely ruined it by saying, "It is curious."

Uhura had completely had it by then. She slammed a hand into the counter and whirled to him, letting everything she'd been keeping under for the past five days fly.

"Curious?" she demanded. "That's _all_ you have to say about this? Our friend is _dead_! Dead, Spock! In case you weren't aware, that means 'not coming back', ever! Never going to announce 'captain on the bridge' again, never going to annoy us all with proclaiming everything was made in Russia again. And his death was completely _pointless_! It was a stupid _accident_! There's nothing 'curious' about that, Spock. You know what it is, though? Unfair. And all you can do is sit there and talk about how fascinating that is!"

* * *

Spock let her rampage for a while longer as more things came out of her that she would regret later, some that she wouldn't even remember. She then stormed out of his quarters, likely returning to hers adjacent. Based on his previous experience with her, she was likely going to have what human females called 'a good cry.' Spock could see nothing good about the act of crying, and most human males he had questioned on the matter could not answer him, either.

One of those human males he had questioned was, in fact, Mr. Chekov.

Spock stared down at what he held in his lap, loathe to admit that, despite Nyota's emotion-induced assumption, he was experiencing just as much grief as she. Grief was not a purely human emotion. Vulcans experienced it deeply, as well, but on a more private level. This was something Nyota had yet to understand, despite all their years together. Vulcans mourned privately, humans were more prone to express their mourning publicly. Though Dr. McCoy, Mr. Scott, and just now Nyota had done so, Mr. Sulu and the captain had yet to show their devastation that was so thinly veiled.

Spock was conflicted between two halves of himself, and so far the Vulcan half had been winning. He had, of course, been mourning the loss of Lieutenant Chekov. That had worked very well for him so far, but that evening he had chosen, once again, to go through the belongings Ambassador Spock had left him. And suddenly the human half was beginning to long to show through.

He too, wished to discuss his pain with someone. And rather like Nyota had with him, he'd come to the conclusion that she would be the best to broach the topic with. He had been searching for the right time to do so, but clearly had chosen the wrong words. And instead of sharing in her misery, he had only added to it.

 _Go to her._

Spock's head snapped up. Had he heard…? No. The idea that the voice of his dead friend had just spoken to him was clearly too illogical to be true. He realized it was clearly what he knew Mr. Chekov would have said to him in that moment, and he was latching on as though hoping he could hold onto the young man a bit longer.

Illogical though it was, Spock, decided to let the idea continue.

 _She clearly needs you, and you need her, Meester Spock. Go._

Finding it more and more curious that emotion was beginning to sound logical, Spock rose from his chair.

* * *

Next door, Uhura was sitting at her own table, sobbing into her hands. She wasn't the weepiest of people, either, but she knew just how much of a fool she'd made of herself. She should have known that something was off about Spock by his word choice. He'd never said Chekov's death was 'fascinating.' He'd said 'curious.'

That should have tipped her off right there.

Her door buzzing jarred her out of her thoughts. Spock stepped in, and the pair of them stood there staring at each other for a few moments. Almost numbly, Spock walked to the seat across from her and sank down into it.

"What I meant, when I said it was curious," he said, "was not that Lieutenant Chekov's death was curious. Nor did I mean the circumstances which led to it. What I was about to say was that it is curious that, no matter what I do, I cannot seem to find any logic in it."

Uhura, who'd been staring at her hands this entire time, looked back up at him, and was shocked to see him clearly fighting back emotion.

"I can see no logic," he said, "that one so young, so bright, with such a glorious future ahead of him, should have his life torn from him in such a seemingly trivial way. Fear of death is illogical, this much I know. Entertaining fantasies of Mr. Chekov somehow coming back is illogical. But I can make no sense of the manner in which his death occurred."

Uhura, all anger and turmoil she had previously felt evaporating, rose and went to him, kneeling beside his chair and laying her head in his lap. Only then did she see what he'd been staring at so avidly back in his quarters.

It was the holographic image Ambassador Spock had left to him, of all of the Enterprise crew together for the last time in his world. Her throat constricted once more as her eyes fell on Chekov. So that's what he would have looked like as an old man. Those were commander's stripes on his uniform, too. I always knew that kid was going places, she thought ruefully.

With a shudder, she realized that wasn't just the last time that crew would have been together. It was also the last time they would be together, all seven of them. Someone at Yorktown had actually referred to them as "the Enterprise seven" in a news article. It had made sense to her. Seven was a good number, she'd always been told.

Six, on the other hand, was an awful number. Uhura had never held any animosity toward it until now, but now she recalled that as many as three hundred years ago humans had believed it was the number of the devil, an evil number. Uhura knew she'd eventually drop that antiquated association, but she didn't think her hatred of the number six would ever go away. How illogical of her.

Further along the lines of illogic, she found herself incredibly angry at just how much one timeline could differ from another. Why had _that_ Chekov in the picture gotten to live a full life and _this_ one hadn't? She supposed the fact that _Commander_ Chekov had made it as far as he apparently had in life should comfort her, but right now, all she could think of was _Lieutenant_ Chekov, and the tears started flowing again.

"Nothing about it is illogical, Spock," she whispered. "It's unfair and unjust."

"A redundant description, as 'unfair' and 'unjust' mean nearly the same thing," Spock replied, almost automatically.

In spite of herself, Uhura laughed through her tears and reached up to take his face in her hands.

"Never change, Spock. Please never change."


	3. To Acknowledge Our Pain

_Sulu_

Sulu saw Scotty eyeing him out of the corner of his eye. The older man was obviously moderately concerned about him, had been for the past week or so. Ever since…well, ever since Kirk and Chekov had both beamed down to a planet, and only one came back alive.

Sulu shook his head. Scotty's worry was clearly misplaced. In fact, compared to Scotty, Sulu was doing just fine, considering the circumstances. He'd decided to take a page out of the Vulcan textbook, and keep his grieving private. It was helping him to keep doing his job properly, and quite frankly, he was certain that was what Chekov would have wanted. No, Scotty was worried for no reason. Sulu. Was. Fine.

That's what he kept telling himself anyway.

What he didn't see was why his comment had been remiss in any way. But as Scotty gave him that wary look and the captain glared at him, Sulu knew he'd said exactly the wrong thing.

"Want to run that by me again, Mr. Sulu?" Kirk asked through gritted teeth. None of them had been themselves the past week, but the captain least of all. He'd been shorter-tempered, almost more tyrannical. Sulu knew it was a result of what had happened on their last away mission – the details of which, he was still not exactly sure. Normally, Sulu was fairly compliant to the captain.

Normally.

But none of them were themselves that week. And if Kirk was least so, Sulu was a close second. And right now, he didn't care why the captain was behaving the way he was. He just wanted some form of release for everything he'd been keeping pent up.

"I said," Sulu replied tightly. "Don't bring Ensign Thorn along."

Scotty looked back and forth between the two men, not liking what he saw but unsure of what to do about it. "Sulu," he began, the concern in his voice evident.

"No, I'd like to hear what Mr. Sulu has to say, actually," Kirk growled, his voice saying that he would like anything but. "Is there a reason you're blatantly questioning my order?"

Sulu took a deep breath, barely keeping his sudden, unexplainable anger under control. "Ensign Thorn shouldn't be asked to come on an away mission where we know barely anything about the planet. Don't you think that should be reserved for more senior officers?"

"Ensign Thorn has shown himself to be an excellent officer and a level-headed thinker," Kirk said. "I think whatever this planet has to offer, he can handle it."

As he turned to board the transporter while they waited for the hastily-summoned ensign to join them, Sulu muttered something under his breath. His intent had been for the captain to miss that particular sally, but no such luck. James Kirk whirled, his eyes holding something deadly, something Sulu had seen before but had hoped to never have aimed at him.

Right now, he could care less.

"What was that, Lieutenant?"

"I said, didn't you once say the same thing about Chekov?"

Sulu didn't remember the captain grabbing him. All he could feel was the slam of the wall against his back, the front of his gold uniform being gripped in a pair of trembling hands, and the sensation of someone being right up in his face, screaming at him. Sulu couldn't hear what Kirk was saying. It was blocked out by the wave of rage roaring in his ears.

Not usually one given to excessive violence, Sulu found himself wishing for his sword as he pushed Kirk off of him. He didn't see the punch coming, but felt the blow knock him off of his feet. Kirk made to grab him while he was on the ground, but Sulu rolled and stood to meet the captain's next jab, which he blocked and returned, satisfied when he saw blood begin to stream from Kirk's nose.

Both men had been vaguely aware of someone shouting their names in the background, but none of them paid it any mind until Scotty shoved his way between them.

" _Stop_!" he shouted. "Both of ye, stop this fool headed fighting! Is this what he would want?" Scotty turned to look at Sulu. " _Answer me_! Is _this_ what Chekov would want?"

Sulu staggered backward, looking past Scotty to Jim Kirk. He saw the blood that had so satisfied him not a moment before, now sickening to look at. Scotty was right. Sulu had seen Kirk as an enemy to fight, the man who had saved his life more than once, and had taken out – what? What was Sulu needing to get out here?

At that moment, the three men were interrupted by an eager Ensign Thorn rushing into the transporter room.

"I'm sorry, Captain, I got here as soon as I…could?" The young man eyed the scene before him, unsure of what to make of it. Sulu, meanwhile, experienced such an overwhelming reminder of Chekov in that moment as he stared at Thorn.

Confused by the roiling emotions within him that refused to let themselves out, Sulu stormed out of the transporter room without so much as a dismissal.

* * *

Jim stood there, numb. Scotty turned to Thorn.

"Laddie, I think ye can get back to your post. Am I right, Captain?"

Jim nodded. As soon as Thorn left, he pressed his communicator. "Spock, away mission is cancelled. You still have the conn."

Spock's voice replied, "Aye, Captain."

Jim went to leave but stopped when Scotty's hand restrained him. "Jim…none of that was your fault. Sulu provoked you. He had no call to say what he did."

Looking back over his shoulder, Jim gave a bitter half-laugh. "Didn't he, though?"

* * *

Sulu sat at his table, staring straight ahead. He wouldn't look up, he wouldn't.

Yet he did, and there, directly across from him, was a holo-image of the entire _Enterprise_ senior crew the day Kirk received his captaincy. It had only been five years, but it seemed a lifetime ago. Normally, Sulu found himself surveying all of them and how much they'd changed, but now his eyes focused on Chekov, and they couldn't be torn away.

He'd only been seventeen then. Sulu had watched his young friend mature over the past year, had finally started thinking of him as a man instead of a kid shortly before the encounter with Krall. Chekov had been a younger brother to him, him and Kirk. Scotty had dubbed the three of them the "Gold-Shirted Stooges," and it fit on occasion – though Sulu would have liked to think himself the least…stooge-like…of the three. He certainly didn't have the habit of landing himself in the same situations Kirk and Chekov so often did. Some humiliating, and some dangerous.

He and Kirk had both lost more than just a friend, they'd lost a brother. So now what?

Sulu's door buzzed. He was feeling a bit the spoiled child today, so he elected to not answer.

Again and again, persistently, it buzzed. And again and again, Sulu refused them entry until it was no longer a mechanic buzz, but a rather infuriated-sounding Scottish brogue.

"So help me, Sulu, let me in or I swear to – "

"All right, all right!" Sulu growled. He got up to answer the door.

James T. Kirk was intimidating when he was angry, certainly. But he was nothing compared to Montgomery Scott. When Scotty was truly mad, he could make braver men than Sulu – and those were few and far between – shake in their boots.

"I don't know just what the hell ye were thinking back there," Scotty growled, "but explain to me what ye meant by saying that to the captain! Can't ye see he's torn up enough about Chekov without your help? We all are, Sulu. And I know ye are, too!"

Sulu frowned. "Of course I am, Scotty! Why wouldn't I be?"

Scotty eyed him. "Frankly, lad, most of us have been wondering. Ye've seemed to be doing, well, almost _too_ well for a man who's lost one of his closest friends."

Scotty's voice caught, and Sulu ran a hand over his face. If he'd lost something of a brother, Scotty had lost something of a son. The friendship between the chief engineer and the young Russian had been slightly different than that of the rest of them. Sulu knew Chekov's own father hadn't been the most present of men, so Scotty had taken over that a bit in the last five years.

That was part of what had been keeping Sulu from wallowing too much the past week. He'd managed to convince himself that all of the crew had somehow lost more than he had. That was just in his nature, to push his own pain to the back burner.

But something _had_ been niggling at him for the past few days. And as he looked at Scotty, who was clearly struggling to hold it together, he fell back into the chair and buried his head in his hands.

"I haven't cried for him, Scotty," he said. "I've been trying to be strong while I'm around all of you, because I know we're all broken up about this. Someone has to be the strong one, right? But once I'm behind closed doors, once I'm ready to mourn…I can't." He looked up at his friend. "Why can't I cry for Chekov, Scotty?"

Scotty pulled up a chair. "Sounds to me like you're numbing yourself, lad."

The two men were silent for a few moments. "Sulu, no one expects anyone to be strong in this situation. Do you honestly think we'll judge ye if ye do nae hold it together perfectly every day?"

Sulu looked back at the picture, at Chekov. "You know," he said, clearing his throat. "This is the first time I've…I mean, none of my immediate family members have passed on yet. Chekov…well, he's the closest person to me I've lost so far."

Scotty's eyes widened. "I'd say ye've been blessed, but…I do nae think it applies anymore."

Sulu felt the tears start coming. "I'm not afraid of much, Scotty, but…I think I'm almost scared to feel the pain."

Scotty put a hand on his shoulder. "We all are, lad. But in this case, we do nae have a choice. And, like I said earlier, do ye think Chekov would want you bottling up your grief, instead of mourning him properly?"

 _I think you know ze answer to zat question._

Sulu shook his head, bowing it. "No," he said. "No, he wouldn't."

And finally, at long last, after a week, the tears came.


	4. To Stop Laying Blame

_Kirk_

Scotty left Sulu's quarters. He'd left his friend still sitting at the table, no longer in tears, but too mentally and emotionally exhausted to do much more than nod his head when Scotty got up and told him he was leaving.

But Scotty's mission wasn't quite done yet. There was one more person who needed counsel, yet Scotty knew he wasn't the one to give it. That job lay with another. Shaking his head and trying to stave off the memories that were threatening to cloud his own mind, Scotty headed toward Med Bay.

* * *

Jim Kirk always blamed himself for the loss of a crew member. Especially when that loss was preventable, as in this situation. But he'd always been able to soldier on past it before, knowing that it was part of his burden to bear as captain.

This time, it was different. This time, he couldn't shake the deep, furrowing pit of self-loathing he'd shoved himself into. And it was growing steadily deeper as this week went on.

He shouldn't have snapped at Sulu, he knew. He knew that Sulu wasn't himself right now, that none of them were. And he'd seen, through the red at the rims of his eyes, the regret on his friend and helmsman's face when Scotty had intervened and the callousness of his words had dawned on him.

But the words had caused a flood of memories to come back to Jim, just as they were now. It had been a flash of images last time, but now they played slowly, painfully, in real time. It was as if he were back on that hell hole of a planet as it slowly crumbled around them…

 _They'd beamed down to the planet only to find themselves in the midst of an earthquake. Thrown to the ground, Jim had slithered toward Chekov, making sure he stayed down, and looked about wildly for the other members of their landing party._

 _"Scotty! Get us out of here, now!"_

 _Static, then silence._

 _"Mr. Scott, come in!"_

 _"Captain – interference – I can only beam up four at a time! Some – malfunction - not enough power-"_

 _What little Jim could discern, he gathered to mean that the transporter had chosen now, of all times, to malfunction. They could beam all up at once, but it would risk at least one of their lives, quite significantly. Maybe Bones was right in his mistrust of transporter pads._

 _Jim looked up at their surroundings. They'd had the misfortune to be beamed to the bottom of a canyon. These walls would probably crumble within minutes._

 _In that moment, Jim made a calculated decision. Surely in the amount of time it would take to grab the second transporting party, nothing much could happen. It would be a matter of, fifteen seconds, say._

 _"Scotty, grab all of them. I'll stay while you get them to safety."_

 _He'd pulled Chekov to his feet by now and had located the other crew members. They were all able to keep relative balance in this tempest. Lightning cracked in the sky above, and Jim cringed. He didn't relish the idea of staying much longer. But if it saved the lives of his crew, it would be more than worth it._

 _Chekov grabbed his arm. "I'm staying too, Keptin."_

 _Jim eyed him. "I don't believe I offered you a choice, Lieutenant."_

 _"All due respect, sir, but I'm not leaving you. Not vith all you've done for me."_

 _Jim wanted to ask what, exactly, Chekov meant, but figured he'd have time later._

…had he known, he would have asked right then and there. Had he known, Chekov wouldn't have been on that planet one second longer.

 _The rest of the team had been beamed up. Jim said, "All right, Mr. Scott. Get us out of – "_

 _"Keptin!"_

 _Jim felt himself being shoved aside, the earth rocking and shaking underneath him. The transporter signal was interrupted. Hearing a rumbling unlike that of the earthquake, he kept his head down until the shaking, at long last, stopped._

 _He looked about wildly, only to find a pile of rock where he'd just been standing. Part of the canyon walls had finally given way. But where was –_

 _The sinking feeling in Jim's stomach turned into one of horror._

" _CHEKOV!"_

Jim crushed his hand into a fist, and for lack of anything better, punched a hole in the wall. His fist still pressed up against it, now bloody from the impact, he slid to the ground, the sizable divot in the wall nothing compared to the one boring its way through his chest.

He'd dug his friend out of the rubble, but by then it was too late. From what Bones said, even if he'd been quicker, he couldn't have saved Chekov. It was the crushing weight of the rocks, not asphyxiation that had killed him. Jim was glad by the time he'd gotten to med bay, Bones had already covered Chekov's body. Seeing him bloody and battered like that once was enough.

What Jim would never get out of his mind, what ate at him day in and day out, what robbed him of sleep at night, was that some of Chekov's parting words to him had been of all he'd done for him. _And when it really mattered, what did I do for you? What could I do for you? Absolutely nothing. I was useless, and you payed the price._

Pavel Chekov had saved his life. And now he was dead. Jim would never forgive himself.

His door buzzed, and he rose to his feet, hoping he didn't look like too much of a mess. There was Bones on the other side, holding some sort of holo-image in his hands. His eyes widened when he saw Jim's bloody knuckles.

"Dammit, man, what did you do?" he exclaimed, pushing him back into a chair. "Sit. Now."

After Bones finished doctoring Jim's knuckles, he sat down across from him, sliding the holo-image across the table. "That was Chekov's," he said. "Found it in his locker, right next to the Romulan ale. You might want to take a look at it."

Jim stared at it in silence.

"Okay, start talking," Bones said, not about to let his friend get away with wallowing in self-hate.

Jim blew out a deep breath through his nose, then looked up into Bones' eyes.

"It was my fault, Bones," he said. "My fault."

Bones raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware you possessed the ability to hold back the earth, Jim."

"But I could have sent him back to the ship, and I didn't. He _saved my life_ , Bones, and – "

Bones surged to his feet, getting into Jim's face, the fire in his eyes intense. "You couldn't have done a damn thing, Jim. In fact, without Chekov, you'd _both_ be dead! Think about that one. It's not like he'd still be here in any case."

He pulled back, heading for the door. "I took the liberty of opening that when I was going through Chekov's things," he said, gesturing at the holo-image. "If you're going to sit there and blame yourself, you might as well look at it, like I said earlier. Then decide if taking the blame for his decision is what he'd want you to do. I think you'll find it wouldn't be. And just know, the kid didn't think he was invincible. He was fully aware of what this job entailed."

Jim frowned at the thing as the door slid shut, wondering what had convinced Bones to leave. Normally Bones didn't let up until he was good and well convinced his point had gotten across. He gingerly reached out and grasped the carrier in his hands.

He dropped it on the table as soon as the image materialized. It blipped out for a moment, but the words kept going.

It was Chekov.

Tears began sliding down Jim's cheeks, finally. Seeing Chekov alive, talking, had finally broken him.

"Keptin," the recording said, "if you're vatching zis, I guess zat means I'm not vith you anymore. Vether zat means I'm dead or just transferred, I don't know. I intended zis for either situation. But if it's ze former option, I know one sing: You're blaming yourself right now.

"Don't do zat, Keptin. Stop. I know you, and I know you blame yourself for ze death of ewery crew member under you. Vell, I knew ze risks. Zis is space, and sometimes, space demands zat ve give our lives. A price to pay for our continued exploration. And if zat means mankind has a chance for something more, something greater, zen I am all too glad to pay it.

A chill went down Jim's spine when Chekov continued, "I hope I vent heroically, at least. Saving my crewmates seems like a much better option zan, say, getting dispatched by some deer-like creature vith extremely large antlers. And if it vas in saving you, Keptin, I'm going to repeat myself: _I made zat choice_. Now make sure zat sacrifice vas vorth it. Please.

"Vy did I make zat choice? Here's vy, Keptin. You are ze only reason I'm still in Starfleet."

Jim frowned through his tears. What did Chekov mean by that?

"You newer knew zis, Keptin, but I vas planning on resigning from Starfleet right before ze incident vith Khan. I vas feeling slightly unfulfilled in our mission. It felt like I vasn't contributing to the owerall exploration of space. Did you realize I didn't ewen go on an avay mission until our five-year mission started? I vas conwinced you sot I vas an ignorant, incapable kid. And so I started to believe zat myself. All I vas doing vas sitting in ze nawigator's chair, something anyvon else could hef done. Maybe zat's vy I started shadowing Meester Scott. Engineers just seemed like zey vere doing a lot more zan I vas.

"But zen Meester Scott left, and you made me Chief Engineer. At ze time, I von't lie… I kind of vanted to tear your head off. But zen, ven you sacrificed yourself for us, and I vas standing zere in your hospital room, vaiting for you to vake up, I realized something. You gave me zat job because you sot I vas capable enough to do it. I did hef some sort of purpose in Starfleet…ewen if I may or may not hef completely made a mess of Engineering."

Kirk laughed brokenly. "Didn't I tell you that wasn't your fault, you crazy kid?"

"And now, I vouldn't leave Starfleet if my life depended on it, Keptin. So zis is me, saying thank you, one last time. If I'm just on another ship, ve vill probably see each other again at some point. But if I'm not…Just know zat you are ze man I respect ze most, Keptin. I don't know if you believe in life after death. I'm not sure vat I believe on ze matter, myself. But in any case, I'll say it anyway: Until ve meet again, Keptin Kirk."

As it was supposed to be written in letter form, he signed off by saying, "Lieutenant Chekov, Pavel Andreievich."

Jim checked the date. Two weeks to the day before Chekov's death.

"Were you psychic or something, Chekov?" Jim muttered.

 _Obwiously. Psychics vere inwented in Russia, you know._

Jim replayed the recording, as he would do at least twice a day for the next month, lay his head down on the table, and continued to weep.


	5. To Forget

Montgomery Scott was not one to shove things to the back of his mind. If he felt something, it usually came out of his mouth in word form. But this was getting mildly ridiculous.

Everywhere he looked, there were memories. He knew this wasn't technically the same _Enterprise_ those memories had been made on. In fact, it had been refitted and refurbished at least twice since. But they still came every time he worked with the warp drive, the emergency stop – not that he had much opportunity for _that_ – even the transporter pad, he thought of Chekov.

For all that Scotty had told Sulu that it was okay to feel the pain, he was ready for it to stop. So he shoved the memories to the back of his mind.

The only one who was having none of it was Keenser. Scotty should have known the Roylan wouldn't let him get away with stuffing everything down. It wasn't as if Keenser was someone he could avoid, even if he wanted to, so Scotty dealt with it.

The day after Jim and Sulu had their falling out, Scotty and Keenser sent them down to the planet for a second try. Sulu had walked into the transporter room, Jim already waiting there, and the two of them had just sort of stared at each other for a moment. Scotty saw Jim eyeing him.

"Oh, will the two of ye just mend fences and get it over with?" Scotty exclaimed. "This planet is begging to be surveyed. Now go!" When neither of them moved, he gestured between the two of them and turned back to the transporter pad.

Out of the corner of his eye he watched them. Jim cleared his throat and said, "Sulu, I – "

"Don't apologize, Captain," Sulu said. "I was in the wrong, and I'm sorry for my actions. I'll accept whatever disciplinary steps you intend to take."

Jim half-smiled, extending his hand. "No discipline necessary, Mr. Sulu."

Sulu shook it, and the two of them, friendship restored, boarded the transporter pad. "Energize, Mr. Scott," Jim said.

Scotty eyed them, not wanting to relive yet another painful memory, but, once again, not being one to hold back what he was thinking, and said, "You two come back in one piece, all right?"

They nodded, no more words needed. They were going to do their best to do just that.

As they disappeared, Scotty turned to Keenser, who was giving him that look. Yes, he'd developed a specific look in the past week. Scotty had come to call it the "Chekov Face." It was when Keenser knew he was remembering, and felt the insatiable need to call attention to it.

"Aye, I'm thinking about the lad, wee man," Scotty muttered. "No need to tell me I am."

"Hmph," Keenser said, with a bit less volatility than usual.

Realizing it would do no good as long as he was here to try to fight them off, Scotty let the memories come crashing back over him, starting with the incident with Krall and working his way back.

Really, the transporter pad was what triggered this memory. He and Chekov were the ones who'd worked at it to beam the stranded crew back aboard the ship. Though he'd never tell any of his crewmates this, Chekov had been the one he'd enjoyed working with the most. Something about the kid reminded him of himself, but even more so, Chekov had _really_ reminded him of Jim. Though he'd been working with both of them for an equal amount of time, he felt that the older Chekov got, he'd started to become more and more like their captain.

In Scotty's personal opinion, though, Chekov had had a wee bit more sense.

Scotty resolved that he'd tell Jim that at some point, once he was sure the captain wouldn't go off the handle on him. With that memory locked away, he moved on to the next one.

Finding Jim and Chekov on Altamid. Though the sight of them caught in Jaylah's trap was a moderately entertaining one, making Scotty wish for a camera, he'd been too relieved to laugh. Jim was one of his closest friends and Chekov – Chekov had been like a son to him. He'd been thrilled to discover all of the senior crew members alive, but those two in particular had been the best discovery of all.

Scotty laughed to himself to remember how mortified Chekov had looked when he'd gotten a better look at Jaylah and realized he was in a less than dignified position. Then he swallowed past the lump in his throat remembering Chekov embracing him once he was free.

He knew it wouldn't get any easier to revisit the memories, but he couldn't stop himself now. There were some good memories, like Chekov's promotion, and his subsequent acceptance of Scotch as a suitable form of alcohol. Scotty had never been so proud…until Chekov started claiming the beverage originated in Russia. At that point, he'd thrown his hands up and abandoned the entire endeavor.

Then there were more saddening memories, like the two weeks after Khan's attack on the _Enterprise_ when no one was sure if the Captain would wake up again. Scotty had borne some guilt for the matter. In fact, it was rather akin to what Jim had been feeling the past week. Scotty had acknowledged that Jim made his choice, but he'd been the one in the closest vicinity. Maybe he could have insisted on getting the core aligned himself, on the basis that the captain was a more valuable officer than the chief engineer.

When he'd expressed as much to Chekov, however, the kid had very quickly shut him down and told him how ridiculous he was being. One thing about Chekov that reminded Scotty of himself – he usually told it like it was.

Like the time in that first year on the _Enterprise_ when Jim, Bones, Chekov, and Scotty had beamed down to a planet and encountered a creature who claimed to be the Greek god Apollo. Chekov had taken one look at him, and had no issue voicing his doubt: "And I am ze Tsar of all ze Russias!"

Jim had intervened before he went further and got himself blasted to smithereens. And that was one of the things about Chekov that reminded Scotty of James T. Kirk: the complete lack of thought for his own self-preservation.

Whether that was in making some ill-timed comment or in saving his captain's life.

Scotty flashed back further, to the first day Chekov had made his way down to Engineering and asked to shadow him. Scotty had been underneath a control board, fixing something that had gone haywire, but had slid out, an eyebrow raised and his wrench still fixed firmly between his teeth.

"Come again, laddie?"

"I vas…vondering if I could learn more about Engineering, Meester Scott," Chekov had repeated, patiently, as though speaking to a five-year-old.

"Are ye having a change of heart about yer position, then?"

Chekov had shrugged. "I hawen't decided yet."

Scotty had considered. He didn't really know Chekov that well at this point, but he seemed like a competent kid, one who wouldn't get in the way.

"Young lad like yourself, surely there's some way ye'd rather spend your off-shift?"

Chekov shrugged again. "Can't sink of one."

So that had begun a sort of internship, if an informal one. Jim would walk past them at work every once in a while, and would make some sort of comment that between the Russian accent and the Scottish brogue, he didn't understand a word they were saying. Scotty remembered a time when Jim had paid a visit to Engineering only to find a control board smoking and Scotty hovering over it, with Keenser having a silent panic attack in the background, and Chekov shouting frantically in Russian as he assisted with the repairs.

"Not to worry, Captain," Scotty had said, his tone indicating that there was every reason to be worried. "Shouldn't be too hard to fix."

The thing had sparked, rather extensively, and Chekov had shouted, " _Chert voz'mi_!"

"Calm down," Scotty muttered, anything but calmly, and hurried about containing…well, whatever the hell it was.

"What are the odds this thing explodes?" Jim asked, clearly wanting to focus on the important questions.

"No chance of that at all," Scotty had said, his tone once again belying the truth of the situation. Jim had sighed and turned to the Russian.

"Chekov?"

Chekov had shrugged. "I'm sewenty-five percent certain zis sing doesn't explode on us, Keptin."

Jim had nodded, his eyes widening. "Great."

Scotty knew Chekov had said something further. Some quip with perfect comedic timing that the kid hadn't even tried for, but he couldn't for the life of him recall what it was.

Why couldn't he remember?

"Two to beam up, Mr. Scott," the captain's voice came in over the communicator. Scotty went about beaming them up. What had it been? Why was he forgetting already? It had barely been a week!

Scotty attempted to calm his panic, but suddenly Kirk and Sulu began to materialize on the transporter pad, and another memory, one of the worst of his life, entered his mind: the last time he'd beamed anyone aboard this ship. The captain, clinging to Chekov's lifeless body, screaming at him that he couldn't die, under no circumstances was he allowed to die for him, and that was an order.

Keenser grabbed onto him before he hit the floor, and Scotty staggered back against the wall, breathing hard.

"Mr. Scott?" Jim asked, frowning and going up to him. "Scotty?" Then sudden understanding dawned on him. Without a word, he grabbed his chief engineer and wrapped his arms around him. It occurred to both men that though they were both very physically affectionate, they'd never hugged the other before, not even when Jim had died and come back to life. Sulu, seeming to sense it was a private moment, wisely kept his silence and stared at the transporter pad, likely having memories of his own.

"I'm forgetting already, Jim," Scotty said through tears. "The things I never thought I'd need to remember, and now I can't. I'm not ready to forget."

Jim nodded. "But what do you remember, Scotty? You remember what was invented in Russia?"

"Everything," Sulu couldn't help adding under his breath, sounding exasperated but a small smile ghosting his face.

"Exactly," Jim said. "You remember how he reversed his v's and w's in everything? You still remember the sound of his voice? The accent?"

Scotty nodded, not sure where this was going.

"You remember that time when the ship was going down, and he saved our lives?"

"Vividly, sir."

Jim pulled back and looked Scotty in the eyes. "Between the pair of us, we've got to weigh at least three-fifty. Now, you couldn't see Chekov's face when he grabbed us, but at one point he looked like he wasn't going to be able to hold on any longer. But that crazy Russian kid did. I may or may not have asked him how much he benched after that, and he informed me he didn't lift. He ran. But he wasn't letting go of us."

Scotty frowned, still trying to pinpoint what Jim was getting at. All this was serving to do was stir up more memories.

"The things we'll always remember, those are the things that made Chekov…Chekov. How proud he was of being Russian. Heck, just how Russian he was! Kid hadn't been back for more than a week in nine years, but you still just sort of knew. I think he had an aura or something. And, no matter what situation he was facing, he wasn't just going to give up. Even if we ended up tearing his arms off. Even – " Jim's voice choked off, and he cleared his throat. "Even when it meant giving his own life."

Sulu stepped in at that point. "They'll fade eventually, Scotty. Our memories. But they won't ever truly go away. And as long as we know that, neither will he." He paused, looking down at the transporter manual control. "You know, there's a quote from the twentieth century: 'To live on in the hearts of those we leave behind is to not die at all.'"

"Good quote," Jim said. Turning to Scotty, he said, "So, is Chekov still in there?"

Scotty nodded, still choked up. "Always."

"Then he's not truly gone, just like Sulu said." Jim eyed manual control as well. "Remember Vulcan, Sulu?"

Sulu laughed. "I thought we were goners for sure. If not for Chekov, we would have been."

Jim ran his hand over the control board. "Four times, at least, that kid saved my life. On Vulcan. In Engineering. When we were back on the _Enterprise_ , on Altamid, he blasted some guy I didn't even see. And…" His voice trailed off. But both Scotty and Sulu knew. No more words were needed.

The three of them stood there, remembering.


	6. To Say Goodbye

James Tiberius Kirk straightened the front of his dress uniform for probably the fiftieth time. It was here. The day of Chekov's memorial. And he was not anywhere near ready.

As captain, he was the one expected to give the bulk of the eulogy, but he'd extended the option to each of the senior crew members to say something, as well. It wasn't as if he had to speak the entire time. That was what he kept telling himself.

Deep down, though, Jim knew that it wasn't giving the eulogy that worried him. He wanted to do Chekov justice. Honor him properly. He would never admit it to anyone, but he was terrified he would fail.

And another thing niggled at him: After this, there was nothing. Nowhere else to go where Chekov was concerned. Nothing to look forward to or dread. It was, finally and truly, saying goodbye. The very thought made Jim want to run as far and as fast from the cold, hard reality as he could. He'd made his peace with the fact that Chekov had died saving his life. But in a way, he hadn't quite come to terms with the fact that his navigator was, in fact, not coming back.

Jim had left his door unlocked, and he heard it sliding open. In walked Bones and Spock.

"It's time to go, Jim," Bones said, not even needing to look at Jim twice. He knew exactly what his friend was feeling.

Jim slowly turned to them, a numb expression on his face. When he looked up into their eyes, both men saw a dark, deep pain behind his eyes.

"I'm not ready for this," he said. "I'm not ready to tell him goodbye, once and for all."

Bones nodded, opening his mouth to speak. But, to everyone's shock, Spock was the one to reply.

"It is my belief that it would be accurate to assume that none of us are, Captain," Spock told him.

Jim lowered his eyes to the floor, took a deep breath, and nodded. "Let's go," he said, walking past them, pausing to grasp Spock's shoulder as he went.

* * *

Jim looked out over his crew. Where had he decided to begin? Oh, right. The usual memorial service address.

"Welcome, crew and…and family," he said, his voice catching a bit. "We have gathered together today to mourn the loss of…"

Jim's voice trailed off as his eyes passed over the senior crew, all in the front row. Spock was, as usual, nearly expressionless. But Jim thought he could catch some amount of turmoil in his first officer's dark eyes. Uhura was already crying. It was almost disconcerting to see one of the strongest people he knew in tears, but even if Chekov hadn't been a friend, Jim knew Uhura's heart was a tender one.

Bones' face was pinched into a glare, and he kept clearing his throat quietly, so as not to draw attention to himself. Scotty was blinking rapidly, swallowing hard. Neither of them could fool Jim. Both had wet cheeks along with Uhura.

Jim gaze fell next on Sulu. His expression was completely broken, though he was not yet in tears. Involuntarily, Jim's eyes traveled to the spot next to him, and his heart clenched when he found it empty. Why were there seven spots? There should only have been…he'd specified…

Meeting Sulu's eyes, understanding suddenly dawned on him. Sulu's hand rested on the seat next to him, and he nodded, as though to say he'd been behind this one. Jim remembered the quote Sulu had mentioned to him and Scotty: "To live on in the hearts of those we leave behind is to not die at all."

They may be saying goodbye to Chekov. But that seventh chair, the only other empty one apart from his own, showed that their Russian friend was not really gone. Not in their hearts.

"Who am I kidding?" Jim muttered, though his microphone transmitted it to the entire audience.

Jim tore up the speech he'd had planned out, letting it fall in pieces to the floor. Most of the crew stirred a bit, glancing back and forth at each other and vaguely wondering if the captain had finally broken. Spock and Uhura looked moderately confused as well, and Bones and Scotty intrigued. But Sulu gave him an approving smile, and the tears began to flow silently. The only way Jim could do this, the only way he could pay Chekov homage properly, was to speak his heart, where his friend lived on.

"I wish I could tell you all that there's some sense to be made of this," he said, barely containing his emotions. "I wish I could tell you that life is going to get back to normal. But let's be honest here, like Chekov always was: We all have a huge hole in our hearts and lives that will never be filled again.

"Pavel Chekov was one of the finest men I've ever known – even when I knew him as more of a boy than a man. He was brilliant at his job. He had a passion for space exploration that I have yet to see equaled. He had a bright future ahead of him. And I will personally never understand why that future had to be ripped from him.

"I know we'll all remember his passion for his home country. As per his stated request, we'll be transporting his body back to Earth, where he will be buried in Russian soil. Let's not forget how much he loved his vodka. And with how many times he beat me at chess – well, let's just say I won't be forgetting his love of that, either."

Jim paused, taking a deep breath before plunging on.

"Chekov saved my life, more than once. He saved Mr. Scott's life, and Mr. Sulu's. He was an integral part of this crew, and he was intensely loyal to us all. He may not have given the first impression of being a fighter, but he was one I was glad to have on my side while he was here. If there is an afterlife, I'm glad to have him on my side now, even if I can't see him.

"There is some expectation that I talk about how Starfleet has lost a valuable member. But I think it is more important to say the universe has lost a vital part of its fabric. One from which there will be no recovery.

"Chekov, however, wouldn't want us to mourn him forever. He'd want us to get on with our lives eventually, keep up the task he dedicated himself to, boldly going where no man has gone before."

Jim turned behind him for the first time, to where Chekov's body lay in a makeshift coffin. Per Jim's request, only his face was visible. The rest of him was closed off. Jim gazed down on his friend, and he could have sworn he saw the barest trace of a smile tipping up Chekov's mouth. Of course, that was probably a ridiculous assumption. But oh, how Jim would miss that smile.

"And now, Chekov, you've truly fulfilled that mandate. You've gone where none of us have gone yet. If you can see us now, know we're not just going to miss you. It's going to cause an ache, a longing, that will never truly go away. Keep an eye on us, Pavel. For all I know, I'll probably shoot the wrong thing and blow us all to kingdom come without you around."

 _Not zat it stopped you in ze first place._

"I heard that," Jim whispered, then realized that the entire crew could hear him. Clearing his throat and turning around, he saw most of the crew raising their brows, but his senior staff were all giving him knowing looks. They completely understood.

Jim couldn't help but smile. They all heard Chekov's voice, too, did they? Well, maybe there was a bit more substance to Sulu's quote than even he'd thought.

"Watch over us, Chekov," he whispered again. "We'll certainly be thinking of you."

* * *

 _One Week Later_

Jim had finally settled on a new navigator, but he was beginning to wonder about his choice. Ensign Williams sat completely straight-backed, rigid, and had a look in her eyes of absolute terror.

"Waiting for your order, sir," Sulu said, eyeing him.

"Just a moment, Mr. Sulu," Jim said. He rose, going to Williams' side, and somehow the rest of the bridge crew seemed to sense this was a private affair. All of them went about seeing to their stations. All that is, except Sulu. He joined Jim next to Williams.

"Everything okay, Ensign?" Jim asked.

The girl, probably only about twenty, sighed and turned to him, her brown eyes full of trepidation.

"I feel like an imposter, Captain," she said. "I shouldn't be here. I'm not the one who should be in this chair."

Jim wanted to respond that of all his crew members who could fill the role of navigator, she'd fit the bill best, but then realized, that wasn't what she meant. She was thinking exactly what all of them were: Chekov should be here, in the navigator's seat. Not her.

 _Do you really believe zat, Keptin?_

 _Yes, I do._

 _Don't do zat to her. Don't make her feel alienated just because it's not me. She may not fill my space in your heart, but she can fill my role on ze ship._

Jim knew he was right. He frowned, vaguely wondering whether this was actually Chekov's voice or a figment of his imagination. He supposed he'd never know. But he liked to think it was the former. He'd talked with Sulu about the possibility of Chekov watching them from the afterlife. Sulu drily commented that Jim would probably make him facepalm on a daily basis. Jim couldn't deny that was probably true.

And he was probably doing it now, as Jim struggled with accepting his new navigator. Jim looked across Williams, into Sulu's eyes. His friend nodded subtly. Jim turned back to Williams.

"Yes, you should," he told her. "If it's replacing him you're worried about, don't be. You're not replacing him, you're carrying on his legacy. Navigator of the Enterprise. It's a proud tradition."

 _Nawigation vas inwented in Russia, you know._

Jim and Sulu made eye contact once more, and grinned. They'd both heard it.

Putting a hand on Williams' shoulder, Jim said, "You're going to do just fine."

"You have any questions, just ask," Sulu reassured her.

Williams nodded, smiling a little and relaxing. Jim returned to the chair and sighed. Space stretched out before him, and he wondered if it had any consciousness of something, someone, missing from it. Spock would certainly have dismissed the idea as illogical.

Remembering the holo-image he'd played back again just that morning, Jim set his gaze on Williams once more and vowed that, no matter what, she would always feel valued. Just as Chekov had.

"Take us out, Mr. Sulu."

"Aye, Captain."

And just like that, space went on. They were ready.

* * *

 _Almost exactly a year ago, I decided to revisit the world of_ Star Trek. _And as soon as I did, I rediscovered a love for the wonderful character who is Pavel Chekov. I've had many favorite characters in many different franchises over the years, but none of them quite come close to meaning the same to me that Chekov does. It's been a bit of a rough year. Besides starting college, a stressful move in and of itself, I was also diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, I had troubles with some of my oldest friends, and was starting to feel as though the life I'd so carefully guarded was disintegrating around me. In my tendency to turn to escapism to get away from the harsh realities of life, I increasingly went to_ Star Trek _as an escape. Chekov has made me laugh, made me scream at the screen ("Don't put him in a red shirt, Kirk! Are you CRAZY?"), made me claim that Wikipedia lies about the birthplace of Scotch, and instilled a moderate desire in me to actually learn Russian, for all that I'll use it in real life._

 _As many of this insane race called fangirls do, when I grow attached to a character in a film, I inevitably grow attached to the one who plays them. And though I do love Walter Koenig, I was especially attached to Anton Yelchin. Considering that I got into_ Star Trek _based on the reboot films, he was the first Chekov I knew, and therefore the one I tend to favor. I began to explore some of his other films, and let's face it: The man was a brilliant actor. I don't think i saw him in a role where he didn't do a completely stellar job. (I mean, I never thought I would cry at a horror film. Let's be honest,_ Odd Thomas _proved me very, VERY wrong.)_

 _June 19th, 2016 made an already rough year even harder. Though I think most of us have a firm grasp of mortality, we usually tend to apply it to the elderly, certainly not those who haven't seen the age of thirty. Through Anton's passing, I was forced to confront the harsh realities of life and death. And I've come to some of the same conclusions you see our crew coming to in this story._

 _First of all, it's always the unexpected deaths, the ones you've never prepared yourself for, that hit you the hardest._

 _Sometimes, there is no way to make sense of things. Sometimes, there is no easy explanation. Sometimes, death is just plain unfair._

 _It's okay to hurt. The pain is nothing to be ashamed of._

 _Blaming yourself will get you absolutely nowhere, and is the last thing your loved one would want._

 _Memories will fade, eventually, especially the little things you never thought you would miss as much as you do._

 _And finally, saying goodbye is certainly hard. But, as my mom's little quote calendar on our kitchen counter read on June 20th, "To live on in the hearts of those we leave behind, is to not die at all." (I asked her if she thought in this situation, fans counted. She thought so, and my mother is a pretty wise woman.) The ones we love never truly leave us. We carry bits of them with us, wherever we go._

 _Keeping these lessons in mind, I almost made it through_ Beyond _without crying. Almost. But then "In Loving Memory of Leonard Nimoy" and "For Anton" came on screen, and no matter how much I was determined to be happy as I watched this film, I couldn't hold out any longer._

 _This was not the last time I wrestled with the harsh reality of mortality this summer. Family tragedy also struck. And through it all, I was inspired to write this story. Manifesting all that I, personally, have learned about death and mourning, into the hearts of our beloved_ Enterprise _crew._

 _I do have two more chapters that I feel need to be published, but if you consider this a good stopping point, please feel free to do so. It was intended to be the end of the main story. These are more of companion one-shots._

 _This was a difficult story to write, but one I felt needed to be told. I'd like to think Anton would approve._

 _All of that being said..._

 ** _In Memory of Anton Yelchin_**

 ** _1989-2016_**


	7. To Let Go

_My Story_

What I said about the next two chapters: I've decided not to upload them. As I write them, the more they just seem to add unnecessarily to a good thing. If I ever do publish them, they'll be as separate one shots. So here's just a bit of my personal story while writing this fan fiction. It's slightly shorter. Quite frankly, to tell you the entire story of my journey with Anton Yelchin and Pavel Chekov would take a bit more than a single chapter. But it's still from the heart. So here goes:

I know the story is called "We're Not Ready," with the intent of the crew finding peace with the tragedy that has occurred among them. And I can only hope the cast can reach some sort of peace in real life, as well. But as for me…I'm honestly not sure I'm ready.

I found myself wondering after Anton's death what was going to happen to Chekov. Yeah, I know. I'm worried about what happens to a fictional character, when obviously the real tragedy is so much greater. But let's face it: It's a valid question. I knew they were paying tribute to Leonard Nimoy in "Beyond" with the death of Spock Prime, and I found myself getting almost angry when I considered them honoring Anton in the fourth film in the same way.

But whatever happens to our favorite Russian ensign (or, if you've read the ongoing comic series, lieutenant), I believe I finally have made my peace with it. Because whoever is writing the fourth Star Trek film, they were the ones who knew him. They will honor him in the best way they know how. It's their job to do that, and my job to be okay with it.

Now, it's my job to do that, too.

How will I do that? Well, for starters, this is the last tragic Chekov fan fiction I will ever write. Honestly, I think the tribute fan fictions I've read are in due order, but they don't have to be the rule. No matter how long it takes him to get there, I swear that in any other story I personally writes, Pavel Chekov will end up so ridiculously happy it'll almost be ludicrous. (Don't worry. I'll keep it realistic with the ups and downs, but, SPOILERS!, our Russian whiz kid will get a happy ending.)

This is the best way I know how to honor Anton. By writing this tribute. By mourning. And then by moving on and making sure that, at least in my stories, the character he brought to life, loved by so many people, and so special in my own life, has a slightly less tragic story.

And as I look back on all of what I call my "Chekov moments," and there are many of them, maybe I'll finally be ready.


End file.
